


The Bull's Eye (Champion of Toro)

by Lionfire42



Category: Nomad of Nowhere (Web Series)
Genre: Asexuality Spectrum, Attempted Sexual Assault, Childhood Trauma, Dubious Consent, Freedom, Gladiators, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Slavery, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-11 23:08:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29750415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lionfire42/pseuds/Lionfire42
Summary: When he was seven years old, his parents were murdered for treason.OrA short history of the Champion of Toro.
Kudos: 2





	The Bull's Eye (Champion of Toro)

When he was seven years old, his parents were murdered for treason.

(Or at least, that's what the report he dug up through the mountain of Toro’s discarded and misfiled reports said. _High suspicion of treasonous activity_. Which explained the massacre that followed. ~~El Rey’s most loyal officers were just as paranoid as their mad king~~.)

He remembers dozens of tents, stretched canvas nearly invisible against the tan sands. He has vague memories of herding goats in the desert, pushing furry rears with sticks and giggling with other children. He barely recalls the taste of cool goat milk, pulled from the chilled sandy depths and sweetened with honey. Sometimes he has the faintest recollection of a woman, face heavy with wrinkles and eyes bright like emeralds, guiding his small finger across the night sky, deep voice rattling the chest flush against his back, murmuring the names of stars.

He remembers, with crystal clarity, the screams and yells and ghastly images in the scattered fires. Remembers the old woman lying motionless in the sand. Remembers another woman--his mother?--being backhanded by an armored demon as a crying bundle--his sister? brother?--is torn from her arms. He remembers the massive form of his father, twirling a slab of steel as long as he was tall in single hand, the other pulling the trigger of a pistol that went _crack! crack!_ above even the screams, like sandstone beneath a hammer, adding his hoarse voice to the cacophony. Shouting his name.

_Aldeban! Aldeban!_

He remembered, above all else, the way the blood looked in the firelight as a demon ripped his father's head from his shoulders. Like rubies in the darkest shades, melting into the sands.

  
  
  
  


He spends years after that in the iron mines. The place is ordered chaos, despite the solid cruelty of the overseers and their whips and pistols. Their power is a facade. 

Like a prison, there are blocks, with their own power structure. Some are ruled by might, others cunning. There are groups who are all but sleeping with the guards, groups who are sleeping with the guards, and groups who the guards will never admit they fear. There are places where it isn't safe for women, places where it isn't safe for men, places where children (not infants, never infants. Such accidents--and there are accidents in this place, where liquor is scarce and physical comfort is sometimes the only thing stopping one from hurling themselves off a cliff--are discreetly taken care of post-haste if only for two reasons: firstly, no one would be cruel enough to try to raise a child in this hell (and even if they did, nature would take its course. Starvation would be imminent). And secondly, it would be a horrible mistake should a guard inevitably discover it. You did not draw attention to yourself, lest you were strong enough to endure.

(And besides, when a prisoner or whoever passed as the mine doctor took care of it, at least then there was the chance of _only_ one death.)) have some semblance of structure and are relatively protected from the worst of the mines horrors.

(And of course, there are places where they aren't.)

He is one of the lucky ones. The man who watches over him, guides him, does not coddle him, does not spare him the worst of the labours and the sounds and sight of people screaming and crying in despair, in pain, in madness. But when he collapses, the man risks punishment to carry him back to the barracks. When he breaks his fingers beneath a collapsed stone, the man shows him how to set and splint them. When someone steals his water, the man shares his canteen and shows him how to break a grip. 

And when a brute attempts to pin him down and remove his clothes in a darker corner, the man is the only one who steps up out of the crowd who has turned their backs and dashes the brute’s skull against the stone, over and over until his brains fall out. It is the man who picks him up, guides him back to the barracks, roots under the filthy mattresses until he finds the dusty wineskin and presses it into his trembling, pre-teen hands. It is the man who teaches him how to carve a shiv and how to use it.

And later, when the dust has begun to settle into the man’s lungs, it is he who works twice as hard, who begs a guard for an extra ration in exchange for extra work. He grows and grows and grows some more, shoulders broad and arms and legs thick and unyielding as the stone he mines, the stone he hammers and chisels and picks, sometimes with a tool in both hands, doing the work first of two men, then three, then five. Though he is still young, guards and prisoners alike fear him. And still the man teaches him, teaching him his letters and numbers and exercising his skill with pilfered posters and charcoal, on the stone walls during breaks with chisels, at night in the sand under the dim light of a bribed candle.

And when the man finally dies, his body too worn and broken and sick to continue, it is he who bribes a sympathetic (or perhaps terrified, he can no longer tell) guard to let him chip and hammer a grave.

* * *

  
  
  


He’s fifteen, and he is given over to the gladiator pits.

There are several in the Governor’s region in a wicked system that leads to the greatest and most canny of survivors warriors being sent to Toro’s masterpiece: the Killosseum. 

He is once again lucky: rather than being sent straight to the crown jewel to be part of a mindless bloody slaughter, he is sent to a smaller branch. It is there he spends his first months cleaning weapons and fetching supplies, lifting materials and helping construct training pieces. It isn’t a bad life, for a slave. He relishes the sun on his skin and dry heat he hasn’t been able to truly appreciate in the near constant cool, claustrophobic darkness of the mines.

And once again his life is changed when a gladiator decides he is desirable, and won’t take his curt refusal as an answer.

Rather than have him killed, the training master instead looks appraisingly, first to him, then the body of the man whose neck he’s snapped like a twig. Then he gives orders for him to be given ten lashes; practically a slap on the wrist.

Two days later he is ushered to the quartermaster, handed a training sword and put to training.

He masters the weapons at a prodigious rate: longsword, sword and shield, hammer, flail, mace, spear, trident.

(No weapon is ever as comfortable as his own two fists.)

~~(A sword never helped his father in the end.)~~

The training master pits him training against numerous opponents over the next few years. Be it against one man, one woman, three people or five, he does not falter, he does not fall.

He does not lose.

When the “graduating class” is ready, the training master tells them two things: one, who ever gets the highest score in the final test will get his personal seal of approval sent to the Killosseum. Of course this means more dangerous fights--but also greater glory, and thus greater...everything. (Relevance in the Killosseum is everything. It meant a certain level of immunity. It meant greater riches and rewards.

Sometimes, it even meant freedom.)

And two, there were only ten spots available. Whoever was left would be sent back to the mines for a few more years.

There are twenty-three candidates.

When the dust settles there are seven.

He is the first, the best. There was never a doubt.

(He forgets how many backs he steps on.)

* * *

He thinks he is eighteen.

He throws up twice after coming to the Killosseum. Once before his match, and once after.

The first time is deliberate. The porridge they are given weighs in his stomach. It was rich, with swollen oats and milk and honey and preserves. It was delicious. The paltry food may as well have been the richest of fine cheeses. It was a last meal. Fitting for the best of the trash.

But it makes him feel sluggish, slow. His belly is used to extracting every fragment of energy and substance from thin stews and potatoes and beans and the occasional bony meat. His stomach churns. It is a weakness he cannot abide. 

He rids himself of it.

Others chuckle at him, dismissing him, thinking him weak willed. But his stomach is empty and his throat burns and he has never felt better.

He is a dervish in the arena. He watches the canny ones, the ones who attempt to avoid the bulk of the combat, and forces them to fight against him.

They do not win.

He will not allow some weasel to stab in the back and steal all he has suffered for.

The ones who are left, those who he has missed, those who are more brawn than brain, those with sheer, dumb luck--all fall to him. All die to him.

It wasn't a large free-for-all, only a dozen or so. But his solid victory makes some eyebrows rise--and others furrow.

The second time is in the privacy of the latrine, having had his first tastes of wines and meads. To his shame, his discipline slips. He is caught up in the celebration of being alive.

It does not happen again.

A man named Sigmore corners him after his fourth match. Sigmore does not threaten him or posture meaninglessly. He simply introduces himself, and offhandedly informs him of a plot against his life.

“From you?” Aldeban eyes him warily. 

Sigmore chuckled. “No, no. From upstarts. Cowardly scavengers.”

“I see,” Aldeban does not unclench his fists. “I can handle myself.”

“I have no doubt.” Sigmore begins to walk away. “Don't die.”

It isn't until later that he realizes he’s been approached by the Champion of the Killosseum himself.

  
  


There are five men waiting for him in the barracks. He kills them all.

* * *

His fame grows, and he moves further up in the brackets as he’s given the honor of fighting dangerous animals and less people. This is good. This means his worth has increased, his abilities have become more of a spectacle. Increased rarity meant higher stakes meant more money, more gambling, more entertainment.

He and Sigmore fall into an odd sort of truce. Sigmore is quiet and lethal, a wolf hidden in a dog's friendly coat. He shares books and news, shows off several other forms of martial arts and moves, training without ever explicitly saying so. Sometimes he simply sits outside the public barracks, despite having his own, private one, and shares his wineskin, ignoring the increasingly pointed and frustrated looks he receives in return.

Several times Aldeban confronts him, threatens him, about his intentions, his plans. And Sigmore always simply smirks and waves his wineskin, or, to Aldeban’s ire, simply outright laughs.

It’s almost inevitable that they end up sleeping together. Aldeban takes the flirting--or lack therefore of. Sigmore, for all his evasiveness in regards to why he keeps sticking around and acting as a companion, has no qualms about outright inviting Aldeban to his bed--as a challenge, despite his discomfort in the act, and after a particularly easy fight, irritated at the lack of a challenge and having experimented with a rather heavy wine, follows Sigmore to his chambers.

It’s messy, and though Sigmore lets him pitch, as it is, he feels dirty and his head hurts and the wine burns in his stomach unpleasantly.

Sigmore rolls over, after he stops, his pleased grin disappearing at Aldeban's nauseous expression. Quick as a snake, there's a bucket under Aldeban's face that quickly becomes full of sick. 

He feels embarrassed, which only serves to fuel his anger. His head is heavy, and though his body is stiff at Sigmore’s gentle touch, he is an expert at which battles to fight, and against a comfortable mattress isn't one of them. He allows the exhaustion to pull him under, the taste of vomit and sensation of bitter anger the last things he remembers.

  
  


He wakes up clean. The evidence of their activities and his embarrassing weakness are gone save for crumpled sheets and the stale scents in the air. His head feels worse than if it had been cracked open, and considering it _had_ been cracked open in the past, he has a fair idea of which is the worst.

Sigmore is sitting across the room in his comfortable, fur covered chair. Aldeban notes the coldness of the sheets and realizes that Sigmore must not have been in bed for a while; possibly even the whole night. He wouldn't have felt _uncomfortable_ per se, had he awoken next to the Champion, but he wouldn't say he didn't feel some measure of….relief, that it wasn't so.

“Morning, Prince Charming.” Sigmore easy countenance betrays no disgust at Aldeban’s humiliating weakness from the night before. He rises, and walks slowly towards the bed, a mug and bowl clasped in either hand. “I managed to save you some food.”

Aldeban simply grunts, annoyed at even Sigmore’s soft-spoken words. He barely feels like eating, the nausea inducing headache being what it was, but training demanded he be ready to fight or defend at a moments notice, and that needed energy, which means he needs food, and so he forces himself to eat the lukewarm gruel, slowly as to not make himself sick.

“So, I owe you an apology.”

Aldeban does not betray his confusion, nor his reluctance to speak (or move or breathe) more than necessary, so he settles for a raised eyebrow instead.

“I was under the impression you were playing hard-to-get.” Sigmore looks uncharacteristically ashamed, and Aldeban is dumbstruck. “I acted dishonorably, not only while bedding you under the influence, but bedding you even though you didn’t really want to.”

A streak of anger burns through him, briefly burning away the pain of his migraine. “Do not presume to know what I want!”

“Not a presumption, though, is it?” Sigmore challenges. “You’ve got a hell of a will, but you’re no sociopath. You like a fight, but you don’t revel in it. You don’t get your rocks off it. And you don’t accept anyone else's offers, or buy a night with a whore or two.” His face softens. “I like sex, you don’t. I like a sweet mead, and you like those god-awful bitter wines. Nothing wrong with that. We’ve just got different preferences.”

He stalks from the hut, uncaring of his half-clothed state. Confusion and embarrassment thrums through his veins, and he ignores Sigmore’s calls.

The next night, after a brutal match, exhaustion and bloodlust and adrenaline and rage simmering under his skin, he hires a whore. He pins her down on his bunk, pulling at her clothes and his own, ignoring her strained, false giggles of arousal, and then…

And then…

He wants to make it happen. But he doesn't want this. He feels nothing; the curtain has risen, and the actors have not come. 

That's not to say he doesn't ever feel...it, but…

He thinks briefly about forcing it to happen. Making things fit, like an unbalanced weapon.

He meets the eyes of the woman pinned beneath him, and is struck by the fear and pity and confusion and pain. He becomes very aware of how his large hands encompass her small wrists like makeshift shackles.

He remembers the ones that covered his own, still cover them in all but name, and it is wrong, _wrong_ \--

He releases her, jumps away from like she has caught aflame, ignoring the ~~guilt~~ ~~shame~~ unpleasant sensation churning in his gut. He shoves more money in her hands, and gestures impatiently for her to leave.

A few other gladiators lingering on the barracks laugh and jeer.

“Can’t get it up, mine-boy?” One chortles. His companion seizes the the whore as she tries to slip past. 

“Guess he’s already paid my fee, eh?” he leered, pawing at her body, ignoring her struggles to get away.

And here's the thing: Aldeban is a monster, but he’s not a _monster_. He is a man who, when need be, acts a beast.

True monsters are the beasts who disguise themselves as men.

The man who jeered helps to hold down the struggling woman as his friend fumbles with his trousers.

A good man would not stand by. Aldeban is not a good man...

(One of the brutes wheezed as Aldeban’s fist buries itself in his kidney. The other, who has finally managed to undo his pants, howls as a heel finds a temporary home in his groin before the force of the blow sends him hurtling from the bunk.)

...but he has never been one to stand by.

* * *

Sigmore doesn't make a huge deal about his steamed departure, or the radio silence, or the huge brawl that had spilled out of the barracks three days prior, which left two men dead and others with injuries varying from bruises and cuts to broken bones. Aldeban himself was still sporting a painful shiner.

Instead, he sits beside him on the wall overlooking the training grounds and shares his wineskin, chattering about everything and nothing, and eventually, Aldeban begins to respond (by grunting, but it’s the thought that counts.)

This is their relationship, as it is. Sigmore still beds whores, Aldeban prefers to take care of himself. Sigmore enjoys sickeningly sweet wines, Aldeban prefers a drink with some bite. Sigmore is not a reader, Aldeban would never admit to enjoying a good adventure story.

They never acknowledge this friendship, and Aldeban would die before he admitted that valued the other man’s presence.

* * *

He is twenty-two and the Champion is dead.

He isn’t panicking, his chest doesn’t hurt, his eyes don’t burn even though--

The Champion is dead.

Sigmore is dead.

It’s only been a couple of years, but it feels like a lifetime and he doesn’t want to remember those times they spent because...because…

The Champion is dead.

Sigmore is dead.

His cabin is empty, his favorite wine will go undrunk because he is Dead.

Sigmore is dead.

His ~~friend~~ ~~companion~~ ~~confidant~~ ally is dead.

The dust burns his eyes, the stew spices make his chest hurt.

* * *

  
  


The new Champion is a weasel of a man whose names himself Torque and wields an odd sort of sawblade lance. Custom and makeshift weapons weren’t unusual; as long as it wasn’t a form of firearm and you had the extra money and knowhow to build and repair it, it lent a form of excitement to the matches.

Personally, he thought it was the ugliest thing he’d ever seen.

He sees him, drinking sweet wines and fondling whores, and it makes him angry, because even though ~~Sigmore~~ the former Champion did the same thing, he had begrudgingly tolerated such behavior; in this vermin, such a sight makes him ill.

  
  


A week or so after the crowning of the new Champion, he is...graced by the rodent’s presence. The man drops beside him ungracefully, greasy hair swinging limply from the movement, and Aldeban turns his glare from the bottom of his bowl to the creature next to him.

“So I gotta know: did he fuck good or not?”

The low murmur around him ceases as the Imposter's loud, nasally voice echoes down the bench.

Aldeban clenches his jaw. The table creaks where he grips it. Those sitting closest to him eye him warily.

  
  


“Figured you would know,” the rat continues, “since you were his boytoy and all.”

The silence continues. Eyes dart between the two opposing forces.

Aldeban does not reply. He shoves a hunk of bread in his mouth, hoping in vain it would neutralize the burning in his gut. The silence stretches to the point that the people surrounding them cautiously begin to resume their conversations.

Out of the corner of eye, he see a hand in the vicinity of his cup. He makes no move to stop it. He finishes his food and stands.

“Oy!” Torque is still sitting, his oversized grin failing to hide the anger and irritation in his eyes. “Not thirsty?” He waggles the abandoned cup of wine in his fingers.

“No.” Aldeban leaves.

The next time he’s in the mess, his dinner is once again interrupted by Torque, only this time he has friends. Torque casually tips the flagon near his elbow on the floor. The crash as the iron container meets the sandstone floor is deafening, and for the second time in a matter of days, a legion of eyes have invaded his unofficial bubble of peace.

Torque gives a loud laugh, and Aldeban is wrong because the man isn't a rodent: he is a hyena. 

His posse join in, as do few awkward others in the mess. Abruptly, Aldeban is furious. 

“What is wrong with you?!”

Torque looks taken aback, and Aldeban has the realisation that he hasn't raised his voice in years.

Not since the argument with ~~Sigmore~~ the former Champion.

The Hyena recovers and give a cocksure grin. “Just wanted some fun. You’re supposed to be this bigshot in the arena, but even though I wasted your boyfriend, you haven't even tried to challenge me.”

He gave a dramatic sigh. “You disappoint me. All of you do!” He raised his voice. “You waste away your days, never moving beyond. You cower in your brackets! You’re all cowards! There’s no ambition! There’s no true fight!”

Some scowl and snarl. A few even make moves to stand. But Torque grins at them, and they lose their bluster, looking away or pretending to eat. For the first time, Aldeban can see how this creature slew the former Champion. He is a scavenger, hiding in the low grass, who waits with his pack until a larger, stronger predator has weakened itself against an equal before stepping in. He is charismatic and cunning, and a slight bit sadistic, and unless you’re looking for it, you will not see it until it’s too late.

  
  


A man challenges Torque, and Torque laughs and offers him a drink.

“The best fight is the one where I’m buzzed!” he crows.

The man drinks and twenty hours later, he dies in the melee. 

It’s not obvious, but Aldeban has been watching, had seen how the man fumbled with his sword at times, and kept rapidly blinking at others.

Poison. Not a powerful one, but one nonetheless.

He knows that this is how ~~Sigmore~~ the late Champion died.

He contemplates declaring his discovery to everyone but dismisses the idea. If he revealed the hyena’s game, the beast might change it. 

Besides, he decided. It wasn't his fault if others didn't use their heads and died from it. And in the end, it didn't matter.

The creature would die by his hands.

~~(And if Sigmore was given peace, alls the better.)~~

* * *

  
  


Torque is Champion for less than a year before he is killed.

Aldeban sways upon the bloodsoaked sands, the burning of the poison thrumming through the stab wound on his side. His skin is tight and numb, his breath burns in his chest. He blinks blood--his own? Others?--out of his eyes.

Torque’s face is twisted in a strange mix of horror and ecstasy. Blood leaks from his mouth, his yawning maw full of the crimson liquid, his tongue laying several feet away where it had been spat out, severed in his own death throes. The rodent’s chest is caved in, a single mighty blow collapsing his sternum and crushing his heart and lungs. His followers lay around him, having illegally come to their master’s aid, limbs shattered and organs crushed.

(His best weapons are always his own two fists.)

The crowd's roars ring and throb in his ears, and high above in a shadowed, ornate veiwbox, a creature watches.

He cannot stand much longer.

He cannot show weakness.

The beasts toasts him, and the crowd grows even louder.

He raises his hand, ignoring the numbness spreading through his fingers. He had to hold on. The crowd screams.

The beast sits and he is finally free to turn and walk away to the gladiator’s entrance. Fifty feet. Thirty. Twenty. Ten. Five. One.

He steps into cool darkness and lets his own embrace him.

  
  
  


There is a monster at his bed, and he barely stops himself from screaming.

“He awakens!” The beast’s voice is so deep, it seems to rattle the windows. “Heard quite a bit about you. Kind of scrawny, though, aren't you?”

_Boulders_ probably seem scrawny to this creature.

He wants to gape. He wants to scream. Instead, he schools his expression into a mask of stoic deference.

“Governor Toro,” he intones, eyes cast down in fear respect.

“So you are the new Champion. Been a while since I wasn't bored out of my skull. No one seems to fight the old fashioned way anymore.” He clenches his fist and his knuckles crack.

Aldeban is glad his skin tone hides the paleness of his quailing soul.

“Be a little more interesting, though. Want some more screaming. Give me some actual entertainment. Besides, I might have some use for you. So try not to die.” He turns, nearly dislodging a ceiling light with his massive horns, and strides away, each step rattling the floor.

The doctor shakily emerges from whatever corner he made himself scarce. The Champion barely pays him any mind, trying to steady his racing heart, but tunes into the conversation long enough to decline pain medicine or sleep aids.

He regrets it though. For the first time in a decade he dreams of a monster on the sands.

* * *

He is about twenty-eight and he has been the Champion for over half a decade.

His power over the brackets is absolute. All fear him.

He tried to follow Sigmore’s one of the former Champion lead and unofficially sponsor a promising candidate. 

All three were failures.

The first tried to murder him.

The second tried to save her wounded brother in the arena and was killed.

And the third…

His fists clench.

_A slight young man, with fiery red hair, gazed sorrowfully across the arena at him. He could barely stand, having been so brutally beaten by the guards, yet stood despite the pain. Facing his end with dignity._

_The crowd bayed, and for the first time in years, Aldeban felt sick._

_“A grievous plot stupidly planned!” Toro roars to the crowd. A wordsmith, he is not. “Traitors, attempting to use my gracious hospitality to betray our great and benevolent king! Look at the last of these traitors, these radicals, and look at the punishment that awaits!”_

_The student traitor is weak but strong in spirit, even in the end._

_"Why?" Aldeban can't help but breathe, his sword buried in the boy's chest._

_Amber eyes meet his own. "...freedom," he gasps "Freedom...in this life...or the next."_

_And then he is limp, dead weight, sliding off the sword to crumble at the Champion's feet, lifeblood splattering over the gladiator's calloused toes and soaking like so many other's into the sand._

_And all the while, the crowd roars._

He doesn't try anymore; let others claw their way to the top, as he did.

~~(Sigmore wouldn't have given up.)~~

~~(It doesn't matter. He's dead.)~~

  
  


He barely remembers his age, but thinks he's just past thirty.

He doesn't spend all of his time in the Killossium. Toro sends him out often to quell a rebellion here, or threaten an uppity district official there. The big brute is lazy, like a lone, pampered bull who won't move save to mount a mare, if that mare was the chance to murder about fifty or so people. His countenance is like the beast he resembles, as well: quick to anger, but slow and often stupid-looking. The Champion is used to being given an innane fetch quest by a guard or servant or from one of Toro's smoke communicators. He could count on one hand how many times Toro had summoned him to meet in person.

So it is all the more interesting when Toro does and is not only attentive when the Champion arrives, but is pacing. The Governor is agitated...nervous?

"There have been numerous sightings of the Nomad in the Oasis region," Toro begins, barely giving the Champion time to bow. "His Majesty has ordered us to investigate."

Ah. The infamous Nomad and El Rey, in the same sentence no less. It explains everything.

Plus it's highly doubtful the King said "us". Toro's games and foisted titles mean nothing to El Rey. No, Toro was already planning to do as he always did: send others out to do the dirty work, then claim responsibility. Typical.

Toro holds out a small box. "This will guide you to the Nomad. I will inform the regional leader to stay out of the way. Bring him back alive."

The Champion takes the box and bows his head. "I will not fail you."

Toro bares his teeth in a mockery of a smile. "For your sake, I hope not." He leans into the Champion's space, the stench of alcohol, blood and sweat wafting from his inhuman form. "After all, one does not fail the king. _I_ can only kill you. His Majesty can make you _beg_ for death."

The Champion's face remains impassive as he bows again and leaves to prepare for his trip. Upon exiting Toro's apartments, he peeks at the contents of the small box. Inside, nestled in velvet, is a small golden compass.

* * *

It has been years since he's had to traverse so far across the wastes, but The Champion is resilient. Most of his targets were escaped fighters or "rebels" — hardly a challenge.

The compass...it makes him uneasy. It is clearly magical, and despite himself, decades of anti-magic propaganda has made him wary. Not to mention, if it is magical, then the only reason Toro has it is because it was granted to him by El Rey. Which means it's worth more than the Governor's life, and certainly far more than his own.

Still, despite his unease, the journey is almost peaceful. The sun bares down on him, but it seems to sting less than the beams burning down on him as he fights for his life. The sand is abundant, but free from the stench of blood and shit. The water he _requisitions_ on his quest from various inns and homesteads tastes sweeter than the freely flowing wines of the gladiatorial tables.

As he journeys further west, he sees more and more of those large obnoxious billboards proclaiming the wonders of The Oasis. A scrawny, weasel-like fellow who looks to have never been in the light of day gives him a ten foot leer. It reminds him of Torque and he instantly wants to ring the man's neck.

He comes across an armed party wearing the most eye-watering yellow uniforms he'd ever seen heading in the direction of the city. The leader is the only one who doesn't appear to be fashion-blind and also the only giving him a glare heated enough to glass the sands between them. 

He thinks about confronting her, but ultimately dismisses the idea. He has a mission to complete, and while the multitude of knives about her person indicates a possibly interesting fight, his more practical side tells him the folly of wasting energy before he confronts the Nomad.

The creature was infamous for a reason and any creature of magic will no doubt take every ounce of his skill and strength.

~~There is every chance he is simply being used as a test. There is every chance he being set up to die. Why else send a mere mortal—albeit a talented one—to face a being not even El Rey can face?~~

  
  


He stalks the Nomad and it's accomplice from the wreckage of the train ~~that he derailed, and how many more people did he kill?~~ through the abandoned mining town. At first he was wary—why was the Nomad so small and slight? Why did it run from him? Surely such a feared creature of magic would seek to destroy him, to flex its might as Toro did?

But no. It fled from him. It was _afraid_ of him.

As the chase grew longer, his anger grew larger.

This was the Nomad? This is what El Rey sought? This is what people whispered about to each other in awe and fear?

It was a creature of straw. It could not fight. It's magic was paltry.

~~Why couldn't El Rey seek it himself?~~

~~Could it be he wasn't as all-powerful as people believed?~~

~~Could it be the people he killed in his name were undeserving of such fate, such orders brought about by a tyrant puppet master?~~

~~Could it be that Toro killed his family for nothing?~~

He's furious. This was supposed to be the fight of his life! The culmination of his skills! The justification for the blood and sweat ~~and tears~~ he's shed!

The Nomad cowers before him.

~~(Like Torque, like his apprentice.)~~

He's to drag it back in chains.

~~(Like the ones that encased him to this day.)~~

He underestimates the girl.

~~(Like he underestimated Sigmore's patience and kindness.)~~

He's falling.

~~(Like ruby drops of blood, arcing through the air and nestling into the sands.)~~

* * *

  
  


The Champion of Toro awakens.

His side burns. Cracked ribs at least. He tries to blink and only half succeeds. One eye is glued shut with dried blood.

There's something heavy half laying across him. He feels and pushes and shoves and fights down a hysterical laugh when he realizes it's a _minecart_. 

The Champion of the Killosium, defeated by a slip of a girl and a minecart.

~~(Fitting. The Champion was born in a mine.)~~

He doesn't know how long it takes to muster his strength and move. But he does it—he always does.

  
  
  
  


The compass is gone.

He searches halfheartedly, but he knows it is lost. Stolen no doubt, by the Nomad or it's companion.

He could probably track them down. He should track them down. But…

He's wounded. He's tired. He's never been so exhausted, so worn. He doesn't know why.

(He's heartsick and bitter taste of defeat lingers.)

  
  


He breaks into an abandoned shack, and is the midst of bandaging his side when the announcement comes over the staticky worn radio. 

Don Paragon is throwing a party, having apparently captured the Nomad.

He collapses onto a nearby cot, heedless of the explosion of dust that is raised by his heavy frame.

He cannot go back to Toro. Not only had he failed his objective, but he'd been shown up by the forces of _Don Paragon_ of all people.

That's not just failure, that's humiliation. And Governor Toro was not a being that would tolerate being humiliated by the failures of his subordinates. 

If he went back, he'd be lucky if Toro only tortured him for a few days before killing him.

(A quick death would be mercy and Toro was no creature of mercy.)

He cannot go back.

(But it's all he knows.)

He looks down at the heavy golden bracers on his arm, the golden bull belt on his waist. Symbols of his status, his might, his victories. 

(Shackles.)

He cannot go back.

(Where else can he go?)

("Aldeban," the old woman, his grandmother, murmurs, face heavy with wrinkles and laugh lines and crow's feet. "Look at the stars. You will never be lost.")

His ribs are wrapped. His shackles are torn away, stuffed in a knapsack to be sold. Credits for his freedom, long overdue.

The cloak he wears is scavenged, worn, sturdy and _his_.

(The water he finds almost tastes like sweetened goat milk.)

His name is Aldeban. He looks to the stars and begins to walk.

**Author's Note:**

> Legit started this two years ago, on the heels of the Nomad of Nowhere finale. It's been sitting in my Google docs, and I've recently been going through my incomplete works and trying to hammer them out.
> 
> It came about due to thinking about what a Killossium would entail. Usually, gladiatorial events and life were practically a culture in themselves and also, often unfortunately, tended to showcase slaves/former enemy soldiers. And given this harsh environment that Nowhere is set in and the fact that there is an Iron Border, I would bet there are mines and possibly slaves in those mines. 
> 
> Then there's the fact that he seemingly revels in being the Champion. But why? Why revel in such a title unless you fought and bit and raged to get it. And why do that unless you have to. So this headcanon came into being: the tragic story of a boy, the son of "rebels", imprisoned and raised in a place of darkness and violence.
> 
> Originally, I was going to let him die in that mine—his life come full circle. But I ended up getting really invested in his story and decided to let him live. He's like my personal Piccolo.
> 
> Plus, the Champion of Toro was really freaking cool, and I refuse to believe he went out like that. And given that Skout has basically been abandoned, I want her to have another strong, gruff companion. I bet if he loosened up, the Champion would give off serious dad vibes.
> 
> The name Aldeban comes from Aldebaran, the star which represents the eye in the Taurus constellation.


End file.
